Through a gateless gate, through a narrowness, a victim of an endless succession of thefts, through a thousand thresholds he cannot possess, the phantom rides in a land of rare rocks and high cliffs into the wind. Into the wind, which blows his being away, into one transgression after another, to wander in arcades far from arcadia in a stone abyss of steps and stadia, he rides and bleeds through rivers of forgetfulness. The phantom blurs into stars that give him no rest. The mineral prairie and cerulean steppe wash away the calligraphy carved in his chest. A dark horseman with scales, he then whirls around to measure another mile of forsaken ground.